She snapped her fingers. "Like that he will! God has no use for the prayers of the decent, honest sort. He's on the side of the football tough with the biggest kick in the scrimmage—Ah, what's the use? I'm born, and I've got to make the best of it. Tell me when to come again, and let me go."
Laying aside his brushes and palette, he went close to her. All the poetry in the world seemed to Jennie to vibrate in his tones.
"Making the best of it because you're born is loving and letting yourself be loved, Jennie."
"So it is." She laughed, with a ring of the desperate in her mirth. "You don't have to tell me that."
His voice sank to a whisper.
"Then why not do it?"
"I would like a shot if I had only myself to think about."
"In love, there are only two to think about, Jennie."
She laughed—a hard little laugh, in spite of its silvery tinkle.
"When I love I've got two sisters and a brother, all younger than myself, to bring into the little affair, to say nothing of a nice old dad and a mother that I'm very fond of. I've got to love for them as well as for myself—"